“What’d you hit, a milk truck?” Rourke asked. “Sounded like two milk trucks.”
“It was a black sedan and it wasn’t an accident. They had something they wanted to unload on me, and it wasn’t milk.”
Rourke’s lean body twitched with apprehension. The grin faded from his face. “You don’t mean—”
“Yep.” Shayne forestalled further revelations in the presence of Cassidy. “I managed to ditch it for the time being,” he added cryptically. “We’ll have to attend to it later. How about Marlow? Did you locate him here?”
Rourke nodded. He looked wholly unhappy but he didn’t pursue the subject. “Whit Marlow,” he amplified. “Checked in from New York shortly after noon.”
“What have you got on Marlow?” Cassidy interposed. “Anything I ought to know, Mike?”
“I don’t know yet. Is he in his room?” Shayne looked at his watch. How long would it take the police to finish a report on the wreck and leave the scene?
Cassidy said, “Marlow went out right after he checked in and hasn’t showed again.”
“How about checking his room?”
“All right, if you say so. I’ll tell the clerk so he can ring us if Marlow pops up while we’re working.” Cassidy got up and lumbered to the desk.
Rourke leaned toward Shayne and whispered tensely, “What happened up the street? Do you mean we got her back?”
“I hope so.” Shayne groaned audibly. “This car smashed me and dumped her to make it look like she was riding with me. Come on, let’s check this lead and see what turns up.”
Cassidy was waiting for them at the elevator. As they got in, he warned the elevator boy, “We’re going into two-fourteen. Fellow named Marlow. If the clerk gives you the high sign, stall on bringing Marlow up till we can get clear.”
The operator nodded. Cassidy led the way to 214 and opened the door with a master key. They entered a bedroom which showed little sign of occupancy — an opened Gladstone on the bed, a closed leather grip in one corner.
Shayne went to the bed and began going through the Gladstone, laying articles of clothing out in a neat pile. The bag contained only the normal articles which a man might pack for a trip. Replacing the contents neatly, he went to the closed grip and unbuckled leather straps.
The grip, which was unlocked, was fitted with medium-priced toilet articles. There were shoes, a wad of soiled clothing and, among other things, a small flat scrapbook which Shayne seized upon eagerly. He rocked back on his heels and flipped the pages open, studied press clippings relating to the engagements of one Beany Baxter’s Band at various dance places and second-rate hotels throughout the New England states.
With Rourke and Cassidy peering over his shoulder Shayne pointed out a thin-faced boyish figure in a picture of Beany Baxter’s Swing Band. “That’s Marlow,” he said. “First saxophone.”
Disappointed, Cassidy declared, “There ain’t no law against tooting a sax that I know of. Hell, Mike, I don’t see anything wrong.”
“Neither do I,” Shayne said, and continued to turn the pages.
The last pasted entry was dated two months previous, from Northampton, Massachusetts. It was a brief item stating that the band had arrived to play a two weeks’ engagement at the Pavilion Royale in that city.
Shayne squatted on his heels and frowned at the clipping while Cassidy moved nervously around the room. Rourke read the item over Shayne’s shoulder, asking, “Is that what you’re looking for?”
Shayne shook his head. “I’m looking for something that’ll tie this sax player up with Arch Bugler.”
“Bugler?” Rourke’s interest quickened. “You haven’t told me anything,” he complained.
“You had a chance to go along with me and turned it down,” Shayne reminded him. He tugged meditatively at the lobe of his left ear, then closed the scrapbook and laid it on the pile of other articles taken from the grip. He rocked forward and explored the interior of the bag carefully, drawing the fitted toilet articles from their niches to be sure that nothing was concealed beneath them.
A sudden exclamation escaped his lips. He bent forward to examine a slit in the silk lining. The room telephone shrilled as he did so.
Cassidy leaped to answer it. “Yeh?” he barked, and then, “Okay.” He dropped the instrument into place, exclaiming, “Marlow’s on his way up!”
Shayne stubbornly remained on his knees beside the empty grip. His fingers were exploring behind the lining. With a grunt of satisfaction he drew out a folded sheet of heavy paper.
Cassidy was dancing up and down near the door in a fever of impatience, begging, “Hurry it, Mike. It’ll be worth my job if we get caught in here for no good reason.”
Shayne shoved the folded document into his pocket and dumped the contents of the grip back in a jumble. He closed the bag and buckled it swiftly, then darted for the door behind Rourke. The trio stepped out just as the elevator stopped at that floor.
The operator appeared to have trouble opening the elevator door. Cassidy had the door of 214 locked and was strolling leisurely down the hall behind Shayne and Rourke when Whit Marlow stepped out and turned toward them.
The young man’s face was a sickly white. He wavered past them toward his room without looking at the three men.
Cassidy sighed when they entered the elevator. “That was a close shave,” he said.
Shayne’s short laugh was sardonic. “That was once over light, Cassidy. I’ve had closer shaves in my own bathroom.”
“And what did you get for your trouble?” Cassidy asked anxiously when they reached the lobby.
“I don’t know. He had it stashed away as though it might be the secret plans for our bomb.” Shayne stepped to a secluded corner and took the paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and then swore with disgust. A pair of cupids frolicked together at the top of the sheet beneath a pink wedding bell. An ornate scroll proclaimed to all and sundry that the Reverend J. Hammond Fitzhugh of Endicott, Connecticut, had united in holy wedlock one Whit Marlow and Helen Devalon on the 14th day of April.
Rourke chuckled at the expression on Shayne’s face. “Maybe it’s a code,” he suggested sweetly. “Secret Agent X is pleased to report—” He ducked Shayne’s swing while Cassidy wrinkled his forehead at the document.
“Do you mean you think this Marlow is one of those fifth columnists and this is not a wedding certificate but some sort of devilish spying code?”
“I’ve quit thinking,” Shayne growled. “Damn a sentimental sax player who hides a wedding certificate as if it was something important. Come on, Tim. Let’s get out of here.” He strode to the door, and Rourke followed, still chuckling over Shayne’s discomfiture.
“Where’s your buggy parked?” Shayne demanded when they were outside.
“Right up the street.” Rourke stopped abruptly. “Wait! What are you after? What about the corpse?”
“By the grace of God I had time to get her out of sight before anyone got there. But we’ve got to move her. She’s bound to be discovered if—”
“Not me,” Rourke demurred stoutly. “Not in my car, either. Damn it, Mike, rent a hearse if you insist on ghouling around with cadavers.”
“Come on,” Shayne growled. He caught the reporter’s arm and urged him on, occasionally turning his head and straining his eyes to see whether the wreck scene was deserted. “It may be too late already.”
“That’s my one fervent hope,” said Rourke. “What’s it all about? Why should someone snatch her from your room and then stage a wreck to toss her back in your lap? It doesn’t make sense.”
Shayne didn’t reply. When they reached Rourke’s car muffled sounds were emanating from the short-wave radio which the reporter had left turned on. Shayne jerked the door open and got in, turned the dial up just in time to hear the words, “… body of unidentified young woman. That is all.”